Prisoner of a Bubble
by Auburn Divinity
Summary: A bubble is fragile, is it not? Free time on a sunny day, no worries, is it something Trowa can feel comfortable with? Please RR or just read.


Prisoner of a Bubble

     To be a willing prisoner of that perfect sphere, a forgotten captive of those pearlescent walls. The soft tremulous light always changing, glistening amorphous clouds in shades of diaphanous rose and metallic jade drifting across its translucent surface as it moves ever upward in its wind-borne ascent. It's impossible to be contained within that fragile orb—impossible, unreasonable, foolish, and yet desired. To live for a moment or in a moment, trapped within one memory, one instant, is too unreal, too cruel. But the juvenile urge to touch the shimmering edges of that globe seem more irresistible, somehow overly enjoyable, as the children eagerly displayed. Like cats batting at fragments of dust carried by the air they pounce on their prey, giggling effervescently when hitting their target. 

     Perhaps it could be what was considered an ideal day, golden sunshine and a clear deep azure sky speckled with the occasional puff of white, like floating cotton. The air seemed clean and sprightly, as if it intended to offer all of its vitality, everything surrounded in the freshness of vivid life: a pure picture rarely achieved. 

     There was no mission to plan, nothing to rush off and attend to, not a single thing that needed his immediate attention; a foreign and unexpected occurrence. The circus members went about their ritual preparations for the evening's performance, their last at this location. They ignored the young man who so seldom stayed within the circus grounds; he paid the same to them. 

     Cathy sat on the hood of a car in front of a group of three children. A natural entertainer and companion at all times, her simple mannerisms seemed to make everyone comfortable, even the new emerald-eyed clown. Trowa watched the bubbles float away from her sitting form, only to be popped within seconds. 

     "Blow a really big one." 

     "Yeah, yeah, a really, really big 'un," a smaller girl seconded the request, positioning herself to receive it. 

     Catherine tried to fulfill their small demand, laughing when a chubby finger pierced the soap globe before she'd finished. 

     "Again?" the third child pleaded. 

     "Okay," the knife-throwing star answered, "But this time, wait." 

     "I'm going to catch it." 

     The bubble drifted only a short distance before it burst in the little boy's embrace. 

     Cathy waved to Trowa with her free hand, inviting him over, "Come join us." 

     Obligingly, the slender Heavyarms pilot stepped closer to the bubble-blowing party. 

     "There's an extra wand," the red-head offered, holding the bottle out to him. 

     A wand? A fairy scepter, a conjurer's magical staff; it was an absurd name for the bright yellow stick with a hoop at each end, but perhaps it was slightly appropriate. 

     "Yay!" The children clapped at the prospect of added bubbles, but they didn't have the opportunity to play with Trowa. Their parents made them leave just as the young man moved to take the proffered object. 

     Trowa and Cathy watched the car she had been sitting on pull away from the circus and head down the two-lane road. They wandered to the end of the line of circus vehicles. Wordlessly she sat on the running boards of the large truck, indicating to her companion that there was enough room for two, but he remained standing. The afternoon sun was warm on his back and neck, the heat like a subtle embrace. Cathy slipped off her shoes, allowing her feet to enjoy the strip of cool green grass between the truck and the chain-link fence marking the boundaries of the circus grounds. She offered him the extra wand one more time. They were now alone, without anything to disturb them, the circus tents fairly close but feeling remote. 

     The young man looped his finger through the smooth ring and pulled the wand from the thick liquid. Cathy held her own close to her pale, smooth lips blowing and releasing a slew of pearly orbs into the still air before brining it down. Some of her bubbles popped after floating a short distance, and others drifted to the grass resting for a brief time before their existence was extinguished. He repeated her actions, but only produced a feeble dome before it burst. Removing their wands from the bottle, she once again produced a swarm of tiny spheres and Trowa's layer of film broke at a small curve. 

     "More precise and blow a little harder," Catherine advised, and demonstrated, "Like this." 

     She made it seem natural to receive tips in bubble-blowing as though she did it everyday. With his lips pursed the gundam pilot sent a thin stream of wind that passed through the hoop, forming the lens of soap into many bubbles. Cathy popped the few that fell to her and let the others escape. 

     Face shaded, the young woman grinned up at Trowa and suggested, "Blow a little lighter and try making a real big one." 

     "Why?" 

     Laughing, she answered, "I want to catch it." 

     Cathy held the jar out, waiting somewhat expectantly for him to take action. Trowa sat on the truck's running boards, next to her and dipped his wand into the bottle. He tried several times to grant her wish, blowing slowly through the thick hoop at the end of the wand. Only one bubble successively detached itself from the yellow ring, pink and green film gliding along its smooth sides. It popped in a spray of soap before she had her chance, and Trowa blinked the liquid out of his emerald eyes. 

     The girl laughed, a genial, melodious sound of approval that animated her entire face, bringing her eyes to a heightened sense of life. Their legs touched as they sat on the narrow ledge of the runners, even without the constant physical contact, without the resonance of her joyous laugh, Trowa would have known she was still there, an invited, soothing presence. 

     "You try." The failed bubble-blower left his wand and turned as best he could on the small surface to face Catherine. She tapped her knee against his a few times as if in deep thought and blew a few small bubbles that drifted in front of his solemn face. He popped them all as she prepared to make more. One of these new orbs landed on his nose and he stared at it cross-eyed before it popped. 

     Cathy's lips still held the gentle curve of her amused smile as she answered, "No." 

     Taking both wands, she walked away from him, stepping into the full light of the afternoon. Trowa watched as the soft breeze played with her auburn locks and she started to spin, barefoot in the fresh grass, arms stretched out. The swarm of new formed bubbles encircled her, a small group of lingering orbs rising as she sat down and looked into the sky to see the effect. Without the backdrop of the circus tents the performer appeared to him then as she was, merely a young woman, friendly, and appealing, a comfortable presence. As he was too—just a young man. 

     'That's the same girl who will be throwing knives at my head in only a few hours,' Trowa thought, inwardly smiling. 

     There she was a caring and beautiful person, urging a bubble to float with gentle breaths. He stood to join her, engrossed in what was there; bare, creamy legs bedded on fresh deep green grass, dusty-indigo eyes full of life, wavy auburn hair freely accepting the tender caresses of the wind. 

     They sat there, armed with their looped wands, both resisting the childish desire to touch that translucent surface and break it. Armies of tranquil orbs, given life from the air pressed through their lips, borne on the breeze created by an ideal day. Two hostages of a moment, willingly contained in an indefinitely short time, but their liberation is inevitable. 

     To live as a consenting prisoner of that soap sphere, unwilling to touch the captivatingly beautiful walls, it is hopeless, irresponsible, illusory. Existence for an instant, an insignificant moment, the treasured recollection, really is too merciless, too surreal, but would any of those who do wish for something else? 

     Can it ever be repeated? For them maybe, for them it's possible. So for now they will live, fight, and someday return. 

     Cathy blew through the bubble-wand as she sat in her trailer late at night wondering where Trowa was; sure he was safe. 

     Trowa's reflection could be seen in the window of the Peace Million, but it didn't obstruct his view of earth; the white amorphous clouds ceaselessly gliding across the greens and blues. Cathy wasn't there now, she was in space too: a willing prisoner of a bubble. 


End file.
